Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and christopher meloni naked. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “christopher meloni naked” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see christopher meloni naked come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “christopher meloni naked, christopher meloni naked, fuck, christopher meloni naked!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “christopher meloni naked” release.